


No Fantasy Left Behind

by CrimsonNi



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Blood Kink, Bottom Ian Gallagher, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Breeding, Crossdressing Kink, Daddy Kink, Dragons, Fantasy, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Bondage, M/M, Mythology References, Praise Kink, Pregnant Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Top Ian Gallagher, Top Mickey Milkovich, Voyeurism, red dragon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 19:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18430544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonNi/pseuds/CrimsonNi
Summary: Despite constant anxiety nipping his behind, he feels comfort in the "closet". Because coming out of it means addressing some alarming thoughts.





	No Fantasy Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> This was so random and I have no idea where it came from. I think I was going for fluff and it turned into...this. Oops? Don't hate me for the absolute...weirdness of it....

The first time was like a broken record, it was repeated over and over  _ and over _ again in his head. The damage was done; the memory was ingrained permanently in his brain deeper than any other emotional moment of his life. It’s a good reminder that  _ it should never have happened _ . It shouldn’t have, yet his nerves tingle in pure joy at the rightness of it all. Never had his body physically responded to something so right. 

 

And he tried staving off. Ignoring him, avoiding him...but the withdrawals were kicking in. At night, he would feel a draft over his skin from the sweats, the shake of his legs when he tried to walk, and on the worst nights, the constriction of his chest. At this rate, he was going to die. So no one could blame him for sneaking his way back to Ian’s view. For research purposes. It was to gage if  _ Ian _ was the one with the problem and seeing him could also be a good way to tell Ian to stop messing with him! If Ian wouldn’t stop being...so... _ him _ , Mickey wouldn’t find himself in this predicament. Imagine his frustration when he goes to the  _ Kash & Grab _ and doesn’t find the 7-foot leprechaun. Reluctantly, he heads over to the Gallagher house but surprisingly, he isn’t there either. Granted, his siblings could be lying, but he’s known them long enough to assess when they are spewing shit and when they genuinely had no idea what he’s talking about.

 

He doesn’t care anymore. If he doesn’t get his body to stop with the goddamn shakes, he’s going to kill someone. So instead, he runs his ass over to the school bleachers, but Gallagher ISN’T THERE! He grinds his teeth, furls his fists, takes deep breaths...if the next place he looks is an empty Gallagher spot, then he’s going to give in and  _ really kill someone _ . The last place he looks is the baseball dugout and  _ thank fucking GOD! _ There’s the spot of red he was hoping to see and when Mickey became aware of that--of the feeling of  _ hope _ \--he had to pause. He shouldn’t hope. Especially for a Gallagher. That should have been sign enough to turn tail but it was too late. The sight alone had Mickey’s knees turning into jello, his heart racing, palms sweating. He was drawn in.

 

He figured if he was doomed (for now) then he’s gonna have Gallagher suffer too. He’s gonna kick the sonofabitch in the leg and then punch him on the shoulder--that should teach him. But when Mickey drew closer, he noticed Ian wasn’t really moving much. He was still, pliant almost, with his eyes closed.  _ Fucker’s sleeping _ . Mickey knew he had to immediately forgo his plan. Not that he would  _ EVER _ admit this to anyone on the planet or afterlife but there actually is something scarier than a drunk, tyrannical Terry on the loose. Mickey’s only observed it once--and he likes to dub the memory as the moment the “Red Dragon” was awakened--but Ian once fell asleep right after ROTC practice. Mickey met up with him by the bleachers where they smoked a joint, passing it back and forth until Ian dozed off. Instead of being a dick for once, Mickey let him sleep, figuring the kid needed the rest. That was until some burly dick--who Mickey vaguely recognized as some Jeff or Josh(?)--approached them, grunting something about  _ “Faggy Ginger” _ . 

 

“Ey, we gotta problem?” Mickey spat. 

 

“Yeah we do. He thinks he too good!”

 

“The fuck you talkin’ bout?”

 

“Told him to suck me off and he told  _ me _ to fuck off. Talkin’ bout how he got high value dick now. Like I said, Faggy Ginger.”

 

Unbeknownst to Jeffy-Josh, Mickey was internally preening. Ian was declining dick from others to keep sucking his. He should be feeling scared at the prospect of Ian acting like the predictable fairy Mickey knew he could be, but the unpronounced loyalty was Mickey’s trigger. If there’s one thing a Milkovich truly gets off on, is loyalty.

 

“Yeah well, he said no. Whatcha’ gonna do, force him?”

 

Jeffy-Josh’s grin was not the response Mickey was expecting. Because a normal person wouldn’t be proud or unashamed at having to stoop so low to get action. This guy though, he acted like that’s  _ exactly _ why he was here, not even caring that Mickey was there as a potential witness. That had a sleeping rage boiling under Mickey’s skin; the actual nerve. He was going to show him a lesson real--

 

But before Mickey could react, Jeffy-Josh used his dirty-ass sneaker to kick Ian--who was knocked out dead to the rest of the world--on the side. What Mickey witnessed after was nothing short than the most terrifying (but equally erotic) thing present. It was like watching a mythical creature spring to life. And Mickey can only associate Ian with mythology because it was as if his blood pooled into the strands of his hair, it blared so brilliantly, and his body uncoiled from the ground like a dragon. There was a noise that came from the pit of Ian’s gut that sounded exactly like a demon creature from Hades and it had Mickey’s nerves trembling. Jeffy-Josh didn’t have a chance; he was suddenly on the ground with Ian curving around him, not punching or biting or spitting, but surrounding him. Suffocating him. Ian wasn’t using force but deadly fear to snuff the guy out. One of his legs wrapped around the leg of Jeffy-Josh and the pressure Mickey witnessed Ian apply to was unnerving. Ian was trying to break his leg. If Mickey didn’t call him off, they were about to bury a body.

 

When Ian finally listened, it was just as Mickey would imagine a dragon to act when it was done “playing with its food”. He uncurled himself, slowly, using his fingers to poke around Jeffy-Josh’s body, almost as if to make sure he usurped all of the dude’s energy. There was still that grumbling noise coming out of Ian, like he was unsatisfied from not having to actually  _ kill _ the guy, but he listened. He stood up next to Mickey and he exhaled, revealing narrow green eyes.

 

“We good?” He grunted out. Mickey could read in-between the lines and that was Ian-speak for  _ let’s get the fuck out of here _ .

 

Mickey was really surprised he answered clearly with a, “Yeah”.

 

Although it was scientifically impossible, Mickey was 100% sure that he defied all science and fact when he felt his ass pool with self-lube. Till this day, he regrets not jumping the shit out of Ian’s bones. They couldn’t since Terry needed Mickey for a fucking drug run!

 

So Mickey knew better than to reenact that level of stupidity. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t heard from or about Jeffy-Josh since…

The plan now was to slowly approach and make his presence known somehow.

 

“Ey, Firecrotch!”

 

Ian didn’t move. His chest was rising up and down, his face nice and peaceful. That strong pull was tugging at him again. Softly, he tried again. “Gallagher, if you don’t wake your ass up, I’m gonna raid the van for your good shit.”

 

No movement.

 

He was persistent, though. He was going to get Ian up for a fuck no matter what it takes. He crouched down, leaned closer, and even softer, he muttered, “Ian.”

 

By some fucking miracle, that seemed to do the trick. Ian scrunched his eyes and inhaled a long stream of air. Ian’s skin stretched, hued with a gentle pink but Mickey could make out some peach fuzz that somehow textured him. When Ian relaxed, he expelled the same air he breathed in and lazily opened his eyes to reveal two green eyes lustered by their lack of use. Mickey couldn’t help it, he could only envision a dragon before him. He could picture the smoke of Ian’s breath enveloping him, drifting into the air as he woke up from his nap. There was even a moment when Mickey could have sworn he saw an extra apendage, an invisible tail unfurling behind Ian, also lazily waking up and waving about. Mickey doesn’t know why he can see all this dragon imagery associated with Ian, but there’s a part of him that thinks it's because dragons, despite being a big-ass slimy snakes, were warm and....kinda beautiful. 

 

They were warmth-engulfers. They embodied the definition of heat and from what he’s always read in books, they were dangerously lethal with their beauty. Something about their ombre-marble like eyes and shit. Whereas Mickey always felt the opposite. Like a vampire. Leech. He wanted that warmth or at least to understand what it's like to be naturally heated. Maybe that was where the draw came from, from the desire to be surrounded and engulfed in that heat Ian could offer. 

 

“Hey, Mick,” the ginger grumbled sleepily. 

 

“Why’re you here sleepin’?”

 

Ian stretched again, sighing pleasurably when a satisfying cracked echoed from his back. “I don’t know. I finished a shift at the store but didn’t want to go home. Figured you were too busy with shit so I came here.”

 

“You could have called me.”

 

Ian’s face wrinkled into itself for a short moment. “My bad? Wanna hang out now?”

 

Mickey warned the flush he could feel rising from his spine to steer clear from his face. He didn’t want to--could not--admit why he was there, even though desperation was clawing pretty fierce under his skin. He mutely nodded and Ian rose from his spot, his lanky form slithering up and all Mickey could see was his 7-foot ass standing in front of him with that fairy-- _ beautiful _ \--smile. Ian stuck out his hand, figuring Mickey was wanting some help getting up. But he couldn’t take it. Not when the ginger’s crotch was borderline-live teabagging his face... _ it was right there _ . He could feel heat pulsing out of Ian and that had his mouth watering.

 

“Mick?”

 

He couldn’t hear anything. His senses were locked onto Ian, it was like a siren calling out to him. And before he could stop himself, his face nuzzled the bulge of Ian’s jeans. The sharp intake of breath was all his ears could pick up on.

 

“M-Mick?!” Ian sounded flustered, surprised.

 

Mickey nuzzled harder, opening his mouth to nibble on the zipper. God, he couldn’t even feel or taste him yet but the knowledge that just behind this zipper, was the greatest dick ever and it had Mickey nearly whining. So he didn’t waste time; he mouthed the zipper lower and dug his face into the opening, seeking the slit to his boxers to free the damn thing. His face was blasted with heat and musk, mouthwatering scent that was so  _ Ian _ ! No hesitation; he sucked into his mouth and choked on it with fervor. Ian made a kind of barking sound, still so surprised by Mickey’s aggressiveness. When Mickey popped off, Ian held him back by his hair.

 

“W-What’s...gotten into you?” He asked breathily. 

 

“You gonna keep asking stupid fucking questions or you gonna fuck me?!” Mickey snarled, too desperate to keep his patience in line.

 

Ian’s body stilled for a short moment before his nostrils flared and his eyes darkened. Yeah, there was that fucking dragon Mickey was aching for. The lazy tail from before whipped around but it made no move to hurt him. It wasn’t going to snuff him out like it did that Jeffy-Josh. Mickey was then picked up--like  _ nothing _ \--and flipped onto his back. Before he knew it, his pants were down and off, as if Ian chewed them off, and his legs were raised high and about.

 

“Ey, what the fuck?!”

 

But once the alter ego is turned on, there was no turning it back off. When Ian was in control of the bedroom, all Mickey was allowed to do  _ was take it _ . “You want me to fuck you?” He growled. “Then you’re gonna be good and shut the fuck up.”

 

Too late, a whimper crawled out of his chest and lungs. He should have felt embarrassed but this was exactly what he wanted. He needed Ian to take the reigns and just go.  _ Please fucking go _ . Ian spread his legs, then his cheeks, and dove in without an ounce of warning or shame. Mickey wondered then, if tongues were like dicks, in the sense of length, because if not, then Ian has to have the longest tongue in existence. Obviously Mickey’s exaggerating, but in all seriousness, Ian’s tongue was abnormally long. Big. And he could feel it almost as if he could feel it touch that spot inside of him that his dick’s easily able to find all the time. Maybe that was another aspect of being a dragon, it came with such perks. Well, perks for Mickey because he’s the one seeing fireworks behind his eyelids. And boy did Ian not disappoint.

 

He ate and slurped as if it were his last meal, until Mickey was gasping, grabbing at the air in a new kind of desperation. He was being tortured in a way no terrorist or abuser could ever master. See, pain, pain can be ignored or overcome, but pleasure? No one ever prepares you on how to  _ take _ it, overcome it. All he can do is take it and even that’s punching walls into his psyche. 

 

“Ian,” he pleaded with fucking tears in his eyes.

 

Ian stopped, taking a couple last second laps before surging up and engulfing Mickey in that heat he mentioned before. Honestly, there was no need for lube since Ian’s entire lower half of his face was covered in wet slobber. So his dick plunged in--gently enough--all the way up to the hilt. The both groaned as Ian stilled. “Give me a second,” he heard Ian whisper. Then it was off to the races. He gripped Mickey’s ankles in his fists as he pounded away with demonic force. Sure it hurt but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was delicious in the way that it ruined him. Mickey knew that he wasn’t going to be walking right after this. That  _ no one _ was going to match this level of passion and virility. 

The pleasure was so intoxicating, it had Mickey gasping out a hysterical laugh. However, the laughing ceased when he felt Ian ignoring his purple prick and instead, massaging his stomach.

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

There was an evil smirk on Ian’s face. That long tongue wetting his lips. “You ever notice when I fill you up?”

 

“What?”

 

“Your stomach gets a little bigger. Like I filled you up and I always think about my spunk leaking out of you.”

 

Surprised wasn’t even in the ballpark of how to describe that. It felt like an elephant backflipped in the pit of his stomach because somehow, that was the hottest thing he had heard year-to-date. Then again, this was new information to Mickey and powerful information to boot. Seeing as Ian was playing dirty, maybe he could give it back just as good...or even better. He smirked evilly himself.

 

“You trynna  _ breed _ me, Gallagher?” He asked in a airy whisper. 

 

There was a stutter to Ian’s thrusts and somehow, the fucker had enough blood in his system to flood his cheeks. “Wh--no--”

 

But he wasn't going to let Ian backtrack. They were here, it was out there. No going back and he’d be damn to let it if  _ this _ was the fucking he was going to get. Plus, Mickey’s got some kinks so tit-for-tat and all that shit.

 

“That it? You wanna put a kid in me?”

 

“Mickey,” Ian spat, eyes narrowed into little slits. “Shut the fuck up.”

 

Mickey bit his lip to keep from smiling. He leaned into Gallagher’s ear, biting the lobe to get a small taste of the man. “Just imagine. My stomach’s all swollen and shit,  _ full _ of you. A little Milkovich firecracker.”

 

Ian roared, slamming even harder into him but his eyes were closed. Maybe he was embarrassed but Mickey didn’t give a shit. This was actually hot and the same imagery he was giving Ian, he was having himself. Maybe this was the nature of a dragon, to mark and own and breed. Ian could be gay, straight, or alien, he was no different from an animal. His instincts wanted to fucking breed Mickey.

 

“B-But,” Mickey began, barely able to speak. He was close an orgasm himself. “We gotta problem. I don’t want it calling you the same thing I do.”

 

“Wha--?” Ian whispered, his body and voice taut with deep desperation to get Mickey to shut up.

 

A laugh escaped him again. He leaned into Ian’s ear one more time, sure that this was going to do the trick. “I don’t want it to call you  _ Daddy _ .”

 

Consider the trick successful. Ian grinded into Mickey and that heat that typically was felt from the outside, pooled inside of him until he felt it down to his toes. It was enough to get Mickey over and he came all over their chests. It was as if Ian was being sparked by a socket, his body convulsing every now and again, so sensitive. But eventually, Ian increased the space between them, looking everywhere but at Mickey. The following silence was jarring considering what they just finished doing. 

 

“Ey, we not gonna talk about it?” His voice was hoarse.

 

Ian’s body flinched. “You do?”

 

Mickey wasn’t sure if the weird shoulder flair resembled a shrug but he figured Ian would be smart enough to know. “I don’t give a shit.”

 

“You...don’t give a shit,” he repeated skeptically. That was fair, considering how uptight Mickey was about most of their physical encounters. But he wanted Ian to understand that most (if not all by now) of the walls Mickey’s built, it’ll only let Ian phase through. And honestly, he was fucking exhausted from not being able to seek this ginger-fucker out without going the long route. He’s horny and he needs Ian around to fix it when he wants!

 

“I don’t.”

 

The dragon appeared suddenly. The smoke came out of Ian’s nose and ears, the tail hitting the dirt under them with frustration. “You tell me all the time how we can’t be a certain way and now it’s all on the table? You trynna exploit... _ that _ ?”

 

“What’s  _ “that” _ ?” Mickey challenged.

 

Ian flushed again. “You know what!”

 

“No, tell me! You so busy being a judgey ass about how I don’t say shit, why don’t you say it?!”

 

“Because!”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Pussy! I knew it, you talk all the good shit but can’t back it up!”

 

“You weren’t supposed to know!”

 

“Know what, Gallagher?!”

 

“ _ That _ !! That I see you like that! I didn’t want to scare you off when we’ve been having it so good so far.”

 

“Tell me,” he challenged again.  _ Show me how the dragon handles his shit _ .

 

Ian bit into his lip, opened and closed his fists a couple times, before exhaling slowly. His eyes zeroed in on Mickey, taking in his form from hairline to toenail. “Yeah, I wanna breed you. I sometimes think about you riding me with a swollen stomach--all round and white like a fucking snowglobe. I think about you in a dress that shows off your stomach and whenever I feel like it, I can flip up the dress and fuck you. I love thinking about you before I breed you. Like of how much come I can fill you with, trapping it with a plug, making sure not a single fucking drop comes out. I think about fucking in front of a mirror so you can see it too. And none of that is even the surface. The  _ shit _ I wanna do to you, for you, I can write a goddamn book.”

 

Mickey’s mouth was dry but his dick was as hard as a rock. “And the--the ‘daddy’ thing?”

 

“That never popped up in my radar since I’m the one that’s hooked up with older men. But you saying it, that fucked me up.”

 

“You liked it?”

 

“I’d love golden showers too if you were the one doing it.”

 

Both of them grimaced, however. “No fucking thanks.” Ian looked very visibly relieved upon hearing that. “But I ain’t opposed to the ‘daddy’ thing.”

 

The dragon relaxed after hearing that, seeming so content in having Mickey’s approval, but there was a nervousness still tickling Ian. “What’s going on, Mick? What brought this on?”

 

“What, you complainin’?”

 

But Ian shook his head before Mickey could get all riled up. “No, I’m not trying to, but I get worried about this. Things get good,  _ really good _ , and then...something fucking happens to backtrack it and maybe that makes me a pussy but I hate being jerked back and forth.”

 

“ _ You _ hate being jerked?”

 

Guess Ian was worried because suddenly his sense of humor was being a little bitch. “Mickey.” Whenever he said his full nickname, Mickey knew that Ian was being serious. Which was hilarious in its own right because it should be  _ Mikhalio _ should be the nerve-wracking name, but Ian was instinctive like that. He knew that it was his version of  _ Mickey _ that would grab the man’s attention, not the forced russian stamp Terry gave him.

 

“Fuck you want me to say?”

 

“The level of truth we can handle.”

 

That fucking elephant from before did another stomp. That was a statement Mickey had never heard before and it was the best one to date. Ian wasn’t forcing Mickey past his comfort zone, but he also wasn’t allowing Mickey to puss-out and get away with some vague bullshit. He wanted Mickey to meet him halfway, where they were both comfortable and to just be  _ honest _ . Not that Mickey was ever a liar, but blatant honesty wasn’t an easy thing to give, especially in the Southside. So Ian wasn’t asking him for much and it was a fair thing to ask for. 

 

He practically rubbed his lower lip raw before gritting out, “Can’t come out like you want me to.”

 

Ian solemnly nodded. “Okay. Is...there a time frame to that?”

 

Mickey shrugged. “I don’t know.”

 

“Okay, then what do you want to happen?”

 

They had a staring contest, or maybe it was only on Ian’s side because Mickey only lasted a couple seconds on his eyes before moving up and down his body. There was a (pregnant) pause before Mickey’s eyes met up with Ian’s again. “For us to fuck,” he whispered.

 

Surprisingly, Ian chuckled. “I need more details than that, Mick.”

 

And for some reason, a really dark fantasy popped up into Mickey’s thoughts. It only was given consideration once or twice since the first time they fucked, and considering how  _ fucked up _ it was, Mickey always tried his best to keep it at bay. But now, with the whole dragon crawling around, its heat hazing Mickey, he couldn’t help but think about it now and invite Ian into it. Maybe this was the only way to really warn Ian and have him leave Mickey once and for all.

 

So he lessened the space between them, basically crawling into Ian’s bubble. Because these weren’t words he could confidently say into the air, no, they had to be incanted. Wished and cursed upon.

 

“For us to fuck,” he whispered again. “In front of Terry.” His voice wavered, fearing that this was the point where Ian would dip. But thankfully, Ian said nothing. “I think about Terry being tied to something. A chair or pole, whatever. And he has to watch. Over and over again.”

 

Another pause between them before Ian whispered back. “What about after?”

 

Mickey swallowed the large lump encased in this throat. Ian wasn’t judging or acting freaked out. He was  _ joining _ . “I don’t want to touch him. I don’t want to  _ dirty _ myself with him.”

 

Ian’s mouth, that happened to be close to Mickey’s cheek and jaw, could be felt lifting a smug smirk. “Should I do it then?”

 

“Do what?”

 

“You tell me,” Ian challenged. “Tell me what you want me to do to him.”

 

The tail could be felt moving, almost as if it were trapping Mickey’s body to Ian. Maybe this was all a manipulative ploy to get Mickey to cave in and obey, but fucked if it worked. Whatever spell Ian’s dragon magic was casting, he felt able and willing to let it happen. Better yet, it felt empowering; to command the dragon. The thoughts were overwhelming, the options were limitless. He wanted Ian to do  _ everything _ to Terry, make the fucker wish he never existed, until every atom was demolished...but he didn’t want Ian to be tainted by that evil. No, he needed Ian clean and pure. He needed Ian to feel proud, be proud, of Terry’s blood on his hands.

 

Mickey was shaking, not from cold or fear, but of unrelenting pleasure singing under his skin. Still, Ian (and his tail) tightened his (their) hold on him. “I...I want you to show him.”

 

“Show him what, Mickey?” Ian pressed lightly.

 

“H-How...How  _ beautiful _ I am.”

 

Ian  _ fucking _ smiled brilliantly. Even better, Ian began whispering to Mickey exactly how that torture can be executed. “I can do that. I’d start with thanking him for giving me the most beautiful boy ever born. I’d show him by having him see how good you are. With your body, your words. I’d have him watch how good you feel inside and out. And how fucking delicious you look with me all over you. I’d walk right up to him and give  _ you _ only the best; punch him, kick him, bite him--whatever you want me to do him, it will be done by command. But you know what would really get you going?”

 

“What?” Mickey barely panted, his arousal so painful at this point.

 

“I’d reveal just how  _ much _ Terry really loves us faggots. I’d give a nice and slow dance, a strip tease, that’d he bitch and moan about but me and you would know that he secretly loves that shit. He’d probably start thinking of all the ways he’d want to fuck me, how he’d like to show me how he can make me his bitch. I’d even start jerking it right on top of him, close enough where he can  _ smell _ it, hear me moan like a bitch. And his mouth will water, and he’d probably be breathing really hard. But then you know what?”

 

“What?” Mickey practically sobbed.

 

“I’d stop and turn right back to you. Have you fuck me raw and hard until I had to beg you to stop--or for more. Scream so he can hear how fucking  _ good _ you can give it. How no other dick can do it but yours--”

 

Mickey shouted as he came, realizing right then that he was coming in Ian’s hand. His mind was in a whole other world and nothing felt so euphoric.  _ Jesus Christ _ , what the hell kind of magic does Ian possess?! Nothing should be that good, but it was and it should be alarming, but it wasn’t. God, it was beyond perfect. Ian was his version of perfect.

 

He returned to earth by the feel of Ian’s lips on his face. Ian did his best to avoid Mickey’s mouth, not without permission, but after that fantasy trip, Mickey needed that mouth. So he snaked his tongue right into Ian’s mouth and the two devoured each other without pause. It was grounding and perfect; the heat and moistness of it all. Time was but a construct. Eventually, the two parted for air but kept within very close proximity.

 

The silence finally ended with a small voice leaking through Mickey’s lips. “Would you kill him?”

 

Ian didn’t miss a beat. “Just give me the word, Mickey. No one ever has to know, you don’t have to watch. Whatever, however you want.”

 

The lump returned, thankfully smaller, but still as obnoxious. “You can’t go to prison.”

 

“It wouldn’t matter, but if I  _ did _ go, I’d be coming back, right here and finish telling you how fucking beautiful you are.”

 

That Mickey can believe. Instead of a response, Mickey continued to kiss Ian, to secretly tell him what his vocabulary can’t; to  _ do it _ , to keep that promise--all of them. And every step of the way, Mickey would be there. The tail gently wagged around them both the more Ian and Mickey shared each other. Mickey had one last thought before he was completely lost in Ian’s person; from an outsider’s perspective, it must have looked like a dominating dragon curled around a battered but powerful snake.


End file.
